


It’s Okay to Miss Them

by burnthiscityxx



Category: One Direction (Band), Taylor Swift (Musician)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 17:07:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2629598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burnthiscityxx/pseuds/burnthiscityxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Writing songs is like writing everything you wanted to say to the person that you secretly are in love with. Or someone who absolutely broke your heart and you never told them that was a really terrible thing to do. Or someone that you miss that you’re not allowed to miss because they are bad for you. It’s like writing all of those things down and putting it in a bottle and throwing it out into the ocean, and maybe someday they’ll hear it and they’ll know it, but maybe they won’t. And maybe that’s a really cowardly way to live your life, or maybe it’s the bravest possible way to live your life." - Taylor Swift.</p>
<p>In which Harry and Taylor come to terms with themselves, the world they live in, and each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It’s Okay to Miss Them

**Author's Note:**

> I caved. I caved and I wrote a Haylor oneshot. Ohhhh boy. 
> 
> (In case you didn’t know, that’s how I know when I’m in too deep).
> 
> Anyway, Tay’s new album is flawless and basically, I think she and Harry were great for each other. Reviews, comments, and general niceness would be much appreciated – if you’ve got criticism, I’ll take that too.
> 
> Thanks, y’all! :)

She spends too much time on her window seat, watching the world pass by. She knows it, too – enough of her friends have told her, pointed it out like a weird tick or unbalanced habit she’s developed. Then again, everything feels unbalanced these days. She’s not trying to be sad. That’s what Selena had asked her – that maybe she was trying to unconsciously go into a dark, sad place, because her new album needed a moody ballad. Selena was wrong, it wasn’t that she was sad because of her art, she was just sad because…

“It’s alright to miss him, you know.”

Ed’s advice comes back to her at the most inopportune times, like when she’s sitting on her window seat with a guitar in her lap. She peeks at the clock on her phone – 1.56 AM. Any minute now, like clockwork, she’ll see headlights in the corner of her eye and she’ll hold her breath and her fingers will pluck at the guitar strings absentmindedly. Maybe it’s okay to miss him, maybe it’s okay to want him again…

But not like this.

* * *

He’s pretty sure it’s stalking. Tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, he knows it’s borderline crazy – at some point, he’s going to have to stop these late night drives, he’s going to have to stop pretending it’s normal, that he meant to take this road. But until then…well, he’s going to sit in his car and try and sort out the mess in his head. It’s been months and everybody keeps telling him to move on, that he’s got so many other options. And yeah, options are great, but they’re not…

“It’s alright to miss her, you know.”

Ed’s voice is as loud as a bloody trumpet in his brain, every single time. It makes him turn the corner, click the headlights off, and press on the accelerator. He’ll bring the car to a cruise in front of that familiar house and if he’s lucky, he’ll catch a glimpse of blonde hair or a curled up cat, just something that’ll take him back to those winter months, before everything got all intense and messed up. It’s hard to remember those winter months, though, and when he pulls his foot back from the accelerator to slow down, his mind floods with all the awful things they said to each other, all the screaming and crying and prying eyes.

He grapples with it still, walks a thin line between running out of the car to grab her by the waist so he can run his fingers over her familiar skin and driving straight ahead. Maybe it’s okay to miss her, maybe it’s okay to want her again…

But he was the one who ended it.

* * *

 Her friends tiptoe around him and she’s frustrated with all of them. His name isn’t poison and she won’t keel over from hearing it, but for some reason, Ed and Cara and Kelly…they stop talking about him. And she doesn’t know how to tell them that she needs to hear his name again, needs to know what he’s up to and how he’s doing. She almost resigns herself to checking a One Direction update account on Twitter, but thinks better of it – she’s sad and pathetic, but not that sad and pathetic.

Instead, she throws herself into the studio, plays with her new fuzzy cat, and goes out with her friends. It’s around this time that she notices the headlights stop coming around, the delicate purr of a car engine at 2 AM doesn’t keep her awake, and when she takes a breath – it doesn’t hurt as much as it did before. And maybe she’s letting go and maybe she’ll be okay, but she still spends too much time on her window seat.

The long days turn into weeks, then months, and before she knows it, it’s winter again. Except this time, there’s no bells and whistles, no sparkles, no late-night hotel visits. There’s only a bottle of wine, two cats, and a crackling fire. She takes a deep breath, relishes in the way it feels – normal, subdued, and almost boring. She misses him, misses his touch and the way his curls fell over his eyes, but there’s a quiet that comes without him. There’s a quiet that’s within her now and she’s feeling all sorts of normal and maybe it’s okay to miss him every now and again.

That’s when the idea of New York starts coming to her.

* * *

There’s a bitter taste in his mouth and his tongue is dry and he knows this feeling all too well. The room is spinning and he’s stumbling and he’s probably had too much, but there comes a point in the night where he stopped caring. The winter’s too cold, the weather’s too harsh, and the memories are too vivid.

So he grabs a half-empty bottle of whiskey off the kitchen counter and wobbles upstairs, shutting the door behind him. There’s a part of his brain that knows he should be downstairs, mingling – it’s Nick’s party and all their friends are here and it’s the type of party that doesn’t need him to be “on his game,” all the time. But there’s the other, louder part of his brain - the one that’s still stuck on late-night hotel visits, on waking up to the first chords of a newly-written song, on dancing behind closed doors and airplane necklaces.

It’s been a while since he’s let all the memories wash over him like this. He stopped driving past her house a few months ago – more because of work obligations and his generally hectic schedule than anything else. But he’s learning how to let go, slowly, but surely. It takes time and the boys are there to help him and it doesn’t hurt that they’re on tour a lot nowadays…but in the quiet, there’s always something missing. In the quiet, he finds his thoughts mixed up like a storm, and he has to sit there and wait it out – it doesn’t seem to go away, unless he’s in a crowd of people or onstage, singing to thousands of fans. But when he gets off stage or when he locks himself in an empty room, the quiet consumes him and she’s all over him.

That’s when the memories of New York comes to him.

* * *

 She takes it in, stretches out her arms, and twirls a little, the corners of her lips slowly turning upwards. She feels light and electric and goddamnit, just so good. Who knew one flight and a different view could change everything? Everything’s new here, different, untarnished and so…unlike Los Angeles. There’s no paparazzi yelling at her, no tabloids littering every supermarket, and most importantly, there’s no delicate purr of a car engine at 2 AM in the morning. Not that she moved to New York to get away from that, specifically. No, she moved to New York because she needed to. She needed the big city and its bright lights.

There’s a window seat in her new apartment, but she doesn’t use it much.

The calm is ever-present now, the quiet within her stilled, except for the occasional wave of emotions she gets at dawn. There are days when she misses watching for the headlights that turn on her street, days where she misses how smooth fingers ran through her hair…but it comes and goes like the tide. New York makes her happy in the completely self-satisfied type of way and it’s refreshing. Her music’s taking a different turn, her clothes are slowly becoming different…she’s becoming different.

Better, somehow.

* * *

He tries to date other girls, but nothing works out. No one is as smart or witty or fearless or funny as she is. No one sparkles or shines or lights up the room the way she does. And he knows it’s sad and pathetic, but it doesn’t even surprise him at this point. So he holes himself up in his room, fills up page after page of poetry and words. It’s enough for a few songs and when he finds the time, he takes the plane to Los Angeles to write.

He tells himself it’s not because of her, but he’s an impeccable liar.

He tries not to be angry when he finds out through the grapevine that she’s moved to New York City. He tries to be happy, tries to understand it from her point of view, but no matter how hard he goddamn tries, he can’t stop turning onto her street and cruising past her house, the memories flooding him little by little.

It takes a call from Ed, who brings him into a writing session, when it all finally spills out of his mouth.

“She still misses you,” Ed says simply.

“Liar. I miss her more than she misses me,” the words slip out of whiskey and beer stained lips, his accent slurred and thick after one too many drinks. But Ed’s the only one he’s got right now, the only one who totally understands what it’s like to be completely consumed by her.

“You should hear some of her songs. She says they’re not about you, but she’s lying. She’s good at that,” he points out.

He gets up from the couch, too drunk to walk straight, but sober enough to know that he’s on the verge of tears. Ed’s words hit him fast and hard, out of nowhere. For some reason, despite her notorious reputation in the tabloids, he’s never once even thought about her writing a song about him. And now, it’s all he can think about. It doesn’t bother him in the slightest, because she’s talented and gracious and humble – she could write the most scathing song about their time together and he probably deserves it after what he put her through.

“You’re pretty good at lying, too,” Ed points out lazily.

Harry runs a hand through his unwashed hair, takes another drink, and leaves. 

* * *

New York blazes brightly for her now and her days and nights are well documented, the smile on her face plastered across every tabloid in America. For once, it’s a genuine smile. She’s never been this content or settled before and even though something’s missing – even though he’s missing – she’s honestly never been happier. She keeps telling herself that, as she writes song after song about how she wishes he’d come back, about how they’re both being stubborn, about how it could’ve all worked out if…

But Taylor tries hard not to think about the ‘ifs.’

* * *

She’s in LA for the first time since she moved and for once, it doesn’t stifle her. She can’t change or avoid the memories, they’re ingrained in every part of her brain and stick to everything in her house, but at least she doesn’t feel like bursting into tears every time a car passes her driveway. So instead, she placates herself with the steady, methodical process of baking cookies – she needs something to bring to Dianna’s house the next day and midnight baking sessions always seem to relax her.

The first batch is about to go into the oven when her phone beeps and she strains her neck to look at who it is. The name that flashes on the screen almost makes her drop the entire tray of raw cookie dough. It’s been a while – that’s a lie, she knows exactly how long it’s been – since he’s called or messaged her. Aside from the headlights at 2 AM, they’ve had zero communication since the last time they ended things. And as much as she knows that it’s smarter to just walk away from him, she can’t stop reaching out and swiping the screen to see what he’s said.

_I’m outside._

She squeals and jumps back from the kitchen counter, before shaking her head to force herself to calm down. Taking a deep breath, she puts the cookies into the oven, sets the timer, and runs a hand through her messy hair. She’s not dressed for visitors – for God’s sake, it’s midnight. But this is…this is him.

That’s all the convincing she needs to open the door.

* * *

 He’s not sure what he expected, honestly. He thought he’d get a curt rejection or no reply at all – but never in a million years did he think the door would open and she’d be there. None of the scenarios he imagined involved coming face to face with her, all breathless and practically half-dressed like a dream, smelling like chocolate chip cookies and cinnamon, hair all messy like it used to be when…

He wants to pinch himself, punch himself, because standing in front of her now, God, he’s so stupid. All their fights, the screaming, the crying, it was all stupid. And he wants to tell her that, but can’t wrap his tongue around the words, can’t admit it out loud because what if he’s wrong? What if Ed’s wrong? What if, what if, what if?

“Hi.”

The word leaves his lips involuntarily and he can’t help the smirk that comes along with it. And when she smiles back and steps aside to let him in, he can’t help thinking that if this is all a dream – he doesn’t ever want to wake up.

* * *

 She likes how he looks in her house, all contained and untouched and safe from the world. If she closes her eyes, it feels and looks like it did during those months, but it’s different now – they’re different now. Her hair is shorter, his is longer. They don’t touch, but there’s that familiar electricity between them and she desperately wants to point it out, but the smarter part of her (she’s calling it the New York part) knows it’s not a good idea. He’s busy cuddling Meredith – he’s the only one who could ever really handle her – when Taylor gets the spark of an idea.

“Can I show you something?” she asks, hands behind her back, nervously rocking back and forth on her heels. 

* * *

He sits on the piano bench, long legs tucked under the keys, his fingers running over the ivories and blacks. It hits him that he’s never learned how to play, that she was supposed to teach him, but then again, their promises to each other only went so far. Instead, he tries to focus on the now – Taylor, in her pink shorts and gray sweater, fumbling with her iPhone, her back to him.

“Sorry, this thing’s kind of broken…could you shut the door?” she mumbles.

Harry nearly faints and he knows, he knows this isn’t what he wants it to be, knows it’s not going to turn out into some frenzied movement of hands and skin. So he takes a deep breath, gets up, closes the door, and goes back to his seating position.

“What are you showing me, exactly?” he asks, warily.

She turns back to face him, lips parted and bouncing slightly on her feet. He doesn’t know if it’s the right word to describe a person, but she’s just pure light and he’s mentally kicking himself for ever thinking he was better than what they had. It was stupid, it was all so stupid.

“It’s my new album and just…give me your honest opinion, okay? If you don’t like it, tell me. I won’t change anything, but just…just tell me the truth.” The last part comes out in a whisper, her tone pleading silently with him to give her the one thing he never could back then.

Harry nods, she presses play, and they wait.

* * *

During the first track, she realizes this is the first time she’s ever played an album for an ex-boyfriend. When _Blank Space_ starts, she notices his eyebrows shoot up – and then a chuckle come from his mouth. But when _Style_ starts and it hits the chorus, Harry leans forward; resting his elbows on his knees, his hair falling in his face. She knows it’s risky, letting him hear the whole album like this. It’s intimate and personal and she doesn’t really know why chose to do it, but part of her wants him to hear it. She needs to him to know that she’s okay now, that she’ll always miss him.

She needs him to know that it’s okay to miss what they had – and maybe, it’s okay to hope for what they could be.

When the last few notes of _New Romantics_ phases out and quiet fills the room, she pokes him gently to gauge his reaction. What she doesn’t expect is his hand immediately reaching over to grab hers and there’s that spark again, but this time it’s like lightning. This time it’s skin on skin, fire and flame, and there are metaphors whirling around in her mind, trying desperately to contain, capture, and remember the moment.

“It’s amazing. Honest, it’s…it’s really fucking good,” he cusses under his breath, as if he can’t believe it. She giggles and instinctively, rubs her thumb across his cross tattoo, her mind flashing back to the times she’s put her lips on it, on all his tattoos, in a race to memorize every single piece of ink he had on his skin.

“Thank you,” she whispers breathlessly and he turns to look at her and she’s immediately gone.

* * *

Maybe it’s the electricity in the air or maybe all they needed was that small spark. All he knows is that she’s familiar and different at the same time. His fingers ghost over skin that he’s memorized a long time ago, but it’s changed – it’s better, somehow. He wants to feel her lips against his, wants her fingers to scratch him again, but it’s all tentative, hesitant touches between them – there’s a line they’re well aware of, both dancing awkwardly around it, but never willing to cross it until the other one does.

He wants to, so badly.

But he knows he shouldn’t risk it. It’s hard to admit it now, but he’s been doing better and she has, too. He can see it in both of them, it’s in their eyes, as they sit here on the piano bench, facing each other. And yet…he can’t get Ed’s voice out of his head.

“I…I’ve missed you,” he stammers, the words falling out like heavy bricks he didn’t know he’d been carrying all this time. “I still miss you.”

He doesn’t know how she reacts, but feels her soft fingers curling around the side of his neck, tangling in the ends of his hair, pulling him closer. She tucks her fingers under his chin and when their eyes finally meet, time stops. Her forehead rests against his and he feels her breath ghosting over his lips…it’s enough, for now.

“It’ s okay,” she says, breathes him in. “It’s okay.”


End file.
